Death of an Alchemist

by Mary Lawrence

  Again her mind wound through the convoluted logic of whether she possessed the destiny, or even deserved the chance, to manipulate nature’s plan. Or was it God’s plan? She sniffed. She was wasting precious time.

  Besides, John might still be adrift in a deep sleep. He might not have broken its spell. She didn’t know what it would take to rouse him, nor could she reasonably expect that he would ever return to her. Or return to her complete in body and mind. He might just wither away. She had heard of similar cases where the victim had lain in such a state for weeks, refusing to die and, yet, refusing to live.

  Admittedly, she was scared to return home. Scared at what she might find. Bianca drew herself straight. For the moment at least, she would push away her morbid thoughts and focus on finding the kerotakis. She would find the required cylinder and she would create the elixir.

  Bianca looked away from Southwark, up the lane toward the Royal Poke, where Amice and Gilley lived. If she hurried she might at last secure the needed piece and return to Southwark before dark.

  Along the way, prentices were shuttering up shops and clearing the stalls. The bustle of activity declared an end to the day, and Bianca quickened her step. She again experienced the eerie feeling of being followed.

  She glanced over her shoulder and, seeing no one suspicious, hurried on. At one point a cart lumbered toward her and she pressed herself into a doorway occupied by a woman bearing a basket of eggs. A whiff of chicken manure stirred her to full attention like a slap in the face.

  Emerging from the alcove, she let the trundling cart shield her and took a long look at the street beyond. She wasn’t sure whom she should be looking for, who could be trailing her, but Tait’s name kept whispering in her ear.

  The strum of a lute floated over the discordant clamor of street noise, taming the sound of shouting children and bleating goats, reminding Bianca of what peace there is in song. She longed to stand beneath the window and listen to the tune—but such leisure was not possible.

  Consumed with what or who might be behind her, Bianca scarcely considered what danger could lie ahead. She rounded a corner onto a narrow lane where houses jutted over the road so close that neighbors across the road could pass a pottle pot between them. Immediately it was as if the light of day had been secreted away. She strode purposefully, but each step took her deeper into the lengthening shadows. The lane grew darker and became more congested. Its suffocating lack of air was another unwelcome reminder of her poor decision. A crush of bodies soon pressed against her, slowing her progress until she could barely move.

  Ahead, word spread that an overturned cart blocked the lane. There was no turning back, as others who had made the same mistake pushed in behind her. An unsuspecting driver followed with a second cart, further preventing escape.

  No gap between buildings or intersecting alleyways could relieve the congestion. Those who had sought the lane as a shortcut began to grouse. No one moved forward and there was not much movement back.

  “God’s tooth, if I had wanted to feel the press of bodies I would’a gone to the Addle Hill stew!”

  “Methinks you might enjoy a similar experience here, without having to pay,” another answered helpfully.

  At least one man could see a possible advantage to the bottleneck.

  Bianca could not tolerate standing in one spot, doing nothing. She thought of John, which was all the prompting she needed.

  “By your leave,” she said, squeezing through the crowd. When refused, she squashed toes and poked ribs with her bony elbows. Leaving a wake of bruises and outcry behind her, she worked her way to a cart tipped across the lane. It lay on its side, its back axle snapped and a wheel off the rod. A load of grain had tumbled out and was strewn about the road. Bianca hitched her kirtle, exposing her ankles, and scrambled up the sacks to reach the other side.

  “Ho there!” said a man, peeling her off like a beetle whose claws had caught in fabric. “You shall wait like the rest of us.”

  “I need to get through. I cannot wait.”

  A woman tipped her chin to be heard. “Wait she must,” she shouted, still sore from Bianca’s aggressive campaign. “She punched me in the ribs.”

  “Aye! She punched me, too!” called another.

  “I did not punch,” declared Bianca emphatically. She looked at the burly man holding her arm. “I nudged.”

  “Oh, that was not a nudge,” said the woman stepping forward. “If that were a nudge, a blow is a bump and a clouting is a clip.”

  “If everyone were to scrap their way out, what an utter muddle we would have.” The man yanked Bianca’s arm to underscore his point. “You will wait doubly long since you have not the sense to behave civilly.”

  Bianca started to object, but her voice was drowned by another.

  “Nay, let me through,” proclaimed a man, a red cap waving at the end of a thin arm.

  A group of men cursing the driver as he unhitched his horse stopped their sport and listened to the new distraction.

  “This matter does concern me. I am responsible for her rude temperament.” The cap flounced as if it were indicating the start of a race, and a group of men trying to rock the bed of the cart upright paused to see who was creating the commotion.

  “I agree her impertinence is shameful, but allow me to dispense her punishment,” said Meddybemps, tripping the last few feet and arriving to stand next to them.

  “And by what right? Who are you?”

  Meddybemps removed the man’s hand from Bianca’s arm and drew her behind him. “I am her father.”

  There was a reason Meddybemps placed himself in front of her. Bianca began to protest and received a painful pinch for her effort. The streetseller’s insistent if not theatrical objections successfully covered her yowl.

  The man eyed them skeptically. “She favors you not.”

  “Sir,” said Meddybemps, looking wounded. “What are you implying?” He glanced round at the interested faces leaning in. “Are you questioning her mother’s honor? Because if you think my dear . . . Bess . . . strayed . . . well, sir, that is a slander I shall not allow you to indulge.” The streetseller straightened and met the man’s eye. “My dear . . . Bess . . . good sir, let me tell of her attributes so that you may know how very mistaken you are. Her breath whispers of fresh-picked mint and her kisses are cool and as stirring upon my brow as if she had laid such sprigs upon it. She would want for none other, for she hath told me, my dear . . . Bessie, my . . . Bess . . . that I love her like none other. That I pluck her as sweetly as a daisy’s petals so her face shineth like the sun. Her flower doth smell as sweet as a violet in purple display, her petals so colored and primed for me to inhale. Bess, sweet Bess. There is no more faithful . . . whore . . .”

  Meddybemps felt the skin twist painfully beneath his jerkin. “—ible, aye, horrible how this cart has caused such an inconvenience.” He smiled, then glanced over his shoulder to glower at Bianca.

  Their drama gained more interest now than the overturned cart. The man, who was not a constable or even a deputy, was not inclined to encourage Meddybemps in more purple prose, and sought to end the confrontation quickly since he had no authority to do anything about Bianca’s behavior.

  “My good fellow, I merely sought to bring some order to this unfortunate situation. Your . . . daughter . . . was likely to cause an uproar. I was trying to impose a sense of order.”

  “And well you should,” agreed Meddybemps, clapping the man on his shoulder. “It is the proper, indeed, the commendable citizen to inflict order on his neighbors.”

  The man, nonplussed, responded with a weak smile.

  “My dear . . . daughter,” said Meddybemps, turning to Bianca. “Let us take our leave and wish this fine fellow a good morrow.” He nodded amiably to the parting crowd as he roughly pushed Bianca back through it.

  An oft-frequented boozing ken was tucked into an inconspicuous building on the lane, not twenty feet from the overturned cart. Meddybemps pulled Bianca through
the door. He had hoped for a chance to sit with her and tell her what he had learned; however, other pedestrians looking to escape the congestion were successfully creating a new one inside the tavern.

  Afforded the gift of above-average height, Meddybemps spotted an open bench and motioned her to follow.

  They jostled their way to a back corner and sat opposite each other next to a boisterous group of men, possibly fishermen or workers from the fish market. Their close proximity bothered Meddybemps more than it did Bianca, but he put on a brave face and angled away from them.

  After several attempts to wave down a serving wench, he took off his cap in exasperation and set it on the board in front of him. “Zounds,” he said. “I could do with an ale.” He scratched his thinning scalp.

  “I suppose I should thank you.”

  “Methinks you are not particularly pleased with me. I could not stand idly by while that jackdaw made an example of you. I suspect he wanted some sort of lewd favor before giving you leave.”

  “Not every man thinks like you.”

  “Ha! You defend him?” Meddybemps’s left eye circled while the other held her with a contemptible stare. “I shall not take issue. But unless you sit inside a man’s skull, you cannot know why he does what he does. And one thing every man does, that may not be what every woman does, is think of how to profit in any given situation. That man saw a chance to have sway over you. I will not mention what could have happened if I had not intervened.”

  Bianca looped the strap over her head and set her satchel on the table between them. She rested her hands palm down on top. “If it should please you,” she said. “Thank you for saving me.”

  The streetseller duly noted the sardonic edge to her voice. He laid a hand on top of hers and nodded, accepting her appreciation and knowing full well she gave it grudgingly.

  “Do tell me the source of your worriment,” he said. “Your impertinence does not serve.” He removed his hand and distractedly looked about for the serving wench again.

  “John has fallen into a deep sleep.”

  Horrified, he looked at her straight on. “A deep sleep? Meaning the kind from which you may never wake?”

  “He has not died. Not yet, anyway.” She glanced toward the door, a rueful expression settling on her face. “He is unresponsive to my touch. He doesn’t react to my voice.” Bianca absently ran her fingers over the coarse material of the rucksack. “Perhaps it is the sweating sickness but I am not sure. I have not heard that victims linger so.”

  “It could happen. I have heard it,” said Meddybemps. “He is a strong lad; he may well recover.” He knew no words that could comfort her. He had always liked John and thought them a suitable pair. They both had a bit of rascality about them, and since marrying, they had tamed their reckless behavior and pursued more respectable, if somewhat dull, livelihoods. Ventures definitely not to his taste or desire. “You have left him alone?”

  Bianca’s throat became tight. “There is nothing I can do for him, so, aye, he is alone.” She glanced over his shoulder and leaned in. “I am seeking the final piece I need to create the elixir of life. And I fear someone is after me.”

  Meddybemps scowled. “Who should want to follow you?”

  Bianca lowered her voice. “I believe someone wants Ferris Stannum’s alchemy journal.” She patted the satchel between them. “The journal contains the complete process for creating the elixir of life.”

  “Ah. Perhaps another alchemist would want it,” whispered Meddybemps. “Or someone who could sell it to an alchemist.”

  “I had thought perhaps that Ferris Stannum’s friend, Thomas Plumbum, could have wanted it. However, Tait, the usurer, told me Plumbum was stabbed last night near Soper Lane. And Constable Patch has confirmed it.”

  “Constable Patch,” said Meddybemps with a shudder. “Not him again.” He stuck out his tongue as if the man’s name had left a bad taste in his mouth. “Must you bring that iron-witted doddy-poll into it?” Reading the look of chagrin on Bianca’s face, he saw that she must. Meddybemps sighed. “I was going to tell you what I knew, but it seems you already know. But, aye, Plumbum is dead.”

  “Tell me everything. Tait has been less than forthcoming and Patch doesn’t know much.”

  Meddybemps lowered his face so no one could see his lips. “You had mentioned Plumbum and I became curious about the man. It seemed to me that perhaps he had the most cause for seeing Ferris Stannum dead. Being a less than accomplished alchemist, I figured he might be jealous of the old man’s discovery. I had no difficulty finding the man, and with a little more inquiry, I learned he owed a sizable sum of money to Jack Blade—the rampallian who frequents the area around the Crooked Cork. Apparently Plumbum had a few obsessions he was known for.” Meddybemps’s eye began to skitter. “One is a traitorous offense. I shall suffice it to say, he was a man whose wanger was most wanton.” Meddybemps tittered with contempt. “His other disgrace was playing primero. And this he played badly. He gambled more than he should have and had a debt that followed him from one table to the next. His reputation on both counts was less than sterling.” Meddybemps snickered and glanced around. He finally caught the eye of the serving wench and she made her way over. “Have you a thirst?” he asked Bianca.

  “I’ll sip yours. I cannot linger. Surely the cart will be cleared away before long.”

  “It will, but the crowd will not have thinned.”

  The wench rested a fist on her hip with three empty tankards looped through her fingers. “What is your pleasure?”

  Meddybemps ran his eyes up and down her person, which was of stout proportion. Unable to restrain himself, he reached for her buttocks and squeezed.

  She slapped his hand away. “I hadn’ the time for that kind of pleasure.”

  “Then a tankard of your bitter,” he said, rubbing his smarting hand. “For it must be the house’s drink.”

  The wench had no use for Meddybemps’s tart remarks and replied with a scathing stare. She quipped to Bianca, “Your father needs a lesson in manners, lass. What will ye have?”

  “Nothing, my lady.”

  The wench raised her eyebrows to hear such a formal address. She cuffed Meddybemps on the back of his head so that his cap fell over his eyes. “My lady,” she repeated, ambling off.

  “Well, she thought I could be your father.”

  Bianca scanned the room for familiar faces and, in particular, Tait’s. Their chance meeting at Thomas Plumbum’s had left her edgy.

  “My sweetum,” said Meddybemps, noticing her jump when addressed. “I need to tell you more of this Plumbum fellow.” He held his hand beside his mouth, masking his lips. “The rumor is that he was run through by one of Blade’s men. Plumbum never paid his gambling debt. After several warnings, Jack Blade’s patience ran out.”

  “He owed the usurer, Tait, a sum of money, too. I wonder if Tait had anything to do with it.”

  “I can’t imagine a usurer wanting a man murdered before collecting his due. Unless he wanted to make an example of him.” Meddybemps shook his head. “That does not seem a prudent course for a man with such a business. However, a man who has crossed Jack Blade more than once should not expect the rascal to forget his indiscretions.” Meddybemps snorted.

  The patrons sitting next to them grew quiet and a couple of the men turned interested eyes on the pair. One man in particular took a lengthy accounting of Bianca. He addressed Bianca and hooked a thumb at Meddybemps. “Fair lady, what do ye see in this ragged coot?”

  “He’s my father,” said Bianca.

  The fellow lifted an eyebrow and the side of his mouth turned up in a half grin. “Aye, well, I suppose ye do take after him.” He turned back to his friends, and after they had each taken a long gander and shrugged, they decided it was of no further interest to them and continued their boisterous camaraderie.

  Meddybemps grinned. “So, my turtle, I wanted to tell you about Blade’s crew. A young rogue has taken on some of his territory and works in part
nership with the cozen. He does Blade’s most atrocious deeds and in return he is well compensated for his trouble.”

  “And its import?”

  “Thomas Plumbum had more than a few brushes with Blade. Plumbum was a man who was being watched.”

  “Did Blade stab him?”

  “I have been frequenting the Royal Poke, where Amice works. It has been taxing, but I have managed to blend into the background and keep my ears open. I have refused games of dice and primero. And I want you to note I did not ogle the help.”

  “Commendable.”

  The serving wench returned with Meddybemps’s tankard and set it before him. She held out her hand for his coin.

  Meddybemps’s eyes narrowed at her astringent treatment. He plunked his coin in her palm. “Keep the change, love.”

  Her hand remained open and waiting. “Ye owe me a ha’penny more.”

  The streetseller and she locked eyes and he stood up. Bianca dreaded another brazen confrontation like the one in the road. Meddybemps’s stare never wavered as he dug into his purse, withdrew the coin, and plopped it in the serving maid’s palm. The wench’s face softened and she smiled in satisfaction, dropping it in her apron pocket.

  “It must have taken some effort to stay unnoticed at the Royal Poke.”

  Meddybemps sat down. “Some alehouses are easier than others.” He took a long quaff from his tankard. “Some women are easier than others.” He glanced over his shoulder and, seeing the wench a safe distance away, lowered his voice. “And she has the face of a cow and the pendulous teats to match.”

  Bianca glanced at the door impatiently. “As you were saying?” “I was sitting at the Poke last night having some fare, when in should walk three cozens. Two of them seemed to be shielding the third from view as they hurried through to the kitchen. The man they were hiding wore his hat pulled down in front of his face. I think they did not want to draw notice, but their behavior succeeded in doing the opposite. Rarely does a group of men come into a ken and not sit for a brew. It was dimly lit, as most taverns are, but I smelled the iron tang of blood when they passed. I glimpsed over and saw the man’s dagger tucked in his waistband, dark with blood. I was not mistaken. A man I was sitting across from saw it, too.